Liberation
by ihadtoputitsomewhere
Summary: Post-Nogitsune Stiles is having a rough time coping with his new-found freedom from the demon. He is still convinced that there is some trace of horrible running through his veins, and he has to let it out somehow. Luckily for Stiles, Scott will always be by his best friend's side, no matter what happens. TRIGGER WARNING: Descriptions of self harm and eventual drug abuse.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't what I expected. Not at all.

I was expecting crying and screaming and pain and blood and—

Well, there was blood. But the rest…

The first time I hurt myself, I was numb. I didn't feel it. I could see it, the blade dancing across my skin, leaving behind little red droplets. But I didn't really feel it. Not like I thought I would.

Part of me was angry because I didn't want this to become who I was. I had seen pictures, people, with big, angry cuts and white feathery scars that tattooed their wrists or thighs or whatever. I didn't want that to be me…it wasn't me. And then one day, it was.

The first time I hurt myself, it was easy enough to hide. I threw on some bracelets, or old wristbands that I found. It was simple. No one really noticed what lay underneath, and if they did, they didn't say anything.

I don't really know what happened, why I did it. I just found a blade and got curious. That seems to be my hamartia, my curiosity. So I tried it. I cut. Once. Twice. Three times. I saw the blood peek out from underneath my skin. I thought I would cry, or scream, or get pissed but I didn't. I smiled. I fucking smiled. Because it fucking worked. I did it again, this time drawing more blood. I watched as it ran down my wrist, satisfied. I put the blade somewhere no one could find it, and went to brush my teeth as if everything was normal, as if I wasn't bleeding underneath these bracelets.

At school the next day, Scott made a face when he saw me. Smelled me. Smelled the blood. He didn't say anything. I smiled at him, like I was fucking proud of myself, and we went to first period as if everything was normal, as if I hadn't split my skin open last night.

It was sore. My wrist was sore. But it was good. To me, it meant I must have had done something right. It was funny. I didn't think I wanted to do it again after last night, but it was all I could think about. I simulated the pain by pressing my fingernails into my wrist. The shocks of pain made my eyes prick with tears. And I smiled, welcoming them. I went home that day and took the blade out of its hiding place. I looked at it, studied it, smiled like it was an old friend. I sliced a line across my wrist. Instantly, little bubbles of red appeared and I laughed. I was bleeding and it stung and I was literally ripping myself apart but I was laughing because I was in control. Me. I had the control, power, to hurt something, someone, who actually deserved it. All those hours and days and weeks, stuck behind the Nogitsune, watching as it tore people apart, people who didn't need to be hurt, who didn't deserve to be murdered. It controlled me, it owned me. And now…

Now I control me. I own me. No one else. Me.

And maybe that's why I was doing this. Maybe I craved control, and power, maybe I was just as bad as Peter, maybe I was worse. But I liked it. I like the pain, the little shocks of electricity that run through my body every time I make another cut. I like the freedom, the liberation that comes with opening up my skin to let the bad stuff out. The bad blood. The bad spirit. The bad Stiles. I'm just trying to get him out for good. But _he _won't let me.

Of course it was Scott. He had to be the one to catch on, to see the little lines that snuck out from under my sweatshirt sleeve for a spilt second. It had to be him. Of fucking course.

He saw the cuts at school, during last period. I had gone nearly the entire day without incident, with bringing any attention to myself. And then it happened.

"Dude." Was the first thing he said. "Are those—are you…" his eyes widened in realization. "Stiles—"

"Scott, don't—"

"I won't. But dude unless you tell me otherwise right now, I'm coming over tonight."

I didn't say anything.

Why the fuck didn't I say anything?


	2. Chapter 2

Scott rang my doorbell that night at around 10.

I opened the door, expecting yelling or crying or **something.** But all I got was—

"I brought CoD and Halo, or—oh! I also brought some pizza because who the fuck doesn't want a little late night pizza, and by a little I mean you're gonna help me eat this entire motherfucker in one sitting." He cut himself off and took a deep breath.

"Okay, I'm cold and I'm coming in now."

He stepped past me and kicked off his shoes, leaving me standing in the doorway wondering what the hell just happened. I turned around, half of me still waiting for him to start with the questions or the yelling and the scolding. The other half, however, remembered that this was fucking Scott McCall, and he wasn't about to come over with video games and pizza just to bitch at me in the comfort of my own home. No, this was Scott, and he came over to hang out with his best friend. Who was me. Who was still standing in the doorway like an idiot.

"Dude, drag ass some more. Get over here and pick your guy." He said, gesturing at the Halo screen with his Xbox remote.

He had half a piece of pizza hanging out of his mouth, and it made me smile because for a second there, I forgot that I had just bought a box of new blades at the hardware store, and that they were sitting ten feet away from Scott on the kitchen counter.

"Uh, y-yeah. Coming. I'm coming. Sorry." I mumbled.

We played Halo, and then Call of Duty, and then a little more Halo, until Scott and I finally swallowed the last bites of our pizza and decided to call it quits.

"Dude, when the fuck did you get so good? Like honestly I came over for a pick me up, you know, down some pizza, kick your ass a couple of times, drink all of the soda in your fridge and totally steal your pillow just to piss you off. But damn," Scott laughed. "major props to you man."

I laughed along with him, really laughed. "Okay first of all, no one touches that pillow, it is **mine.** Second, in case you forgot, you're kinda the only person I hang out with…like ever. I have a shit ton of free time to practice so I can make sure I'm the one kicking your werewolf ass."

"True that, my man. True that."

We sat in a semi-comfortable silence for about 30 seconds, until my inevitable curiosity kicked in and I spewed out my question like word vomit.

"Why did you come over?"

"Hmm?" Scott hummed from across the couch.

"Why tonight? Why all of a sudden?"

"What, I can't hang out with my best friend?"

"No, no it's not that it's just, at school you seemed almost…like, like you were determined to come home with me that very second." Scott remained silent. "I dunno," I continued. "It just seemed…off, or someth—"

"I can smell you."

"Uh, yeah." I said slowly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's kinda part of the whole werewolf premium package."

"Stiles you know that's not what I mean. I can smell you. Your scent." He paused. "Your blood."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm not, like, mad at you, Stiles."

"I know."

"I'm just, I dunno, I just feel like I should do something. That's, kinda why I came over tonight. To see if maybe…this…me…I could help?"

"Scott you don't need to worry about it. Or me. Or anything. Everything's fine, or at least it will be. So just, please, just leave it." I kept my eyes trained to the floor, unable to bring myself to look at Scott.

Scott sighed, and I thought that was the end of it. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was burning with anticipation for what would happen next.

"I can't." Scott whispered. "I can't just let you—"

"Let me what?" I snapped, sharper than I intended.

"Do this!" Scott grabbed my wrist and held it in between us. "I can see the cuts, I can smell the blood and the pain and the relief it brings you. It's like a drug to you, I know that. Okay? I do. But it's not right, dude. You can't just, hurt yourself like this and be okay with it, alright **I'm **not okay with it. But that's not what matters. I want you to stop, to let yourself heal, but you can't do it for me. It has to be for you. You have to want to quit the drug, and I know. I know how hard it's gonna be for you. I know that eventually you might slip up. But that's okay because I sure as hell will be there to fight with you and help you heal. Okay, you know I will. So please, dude, just let me."

I was crying now. Full fledged, ugly, heavy, hot tears crying. With the shaking and the hiccups and the sobs and all that shit. That's what it felt like. Shit. Complete and utter shit. But I knew he was right. God, of course he was right. How could he not be? I pointed, shakily, to the plastic Walgreens bag sitting on my kitchen counter. I tried to talk in between sobs.

"T-there. In there, you…you have t' throw them, please you gotta j-just…get them out." I stood up and began walking towards the bag, Scott trailing behind me.

"Get them out." I sobbed. "Get them out." I picked up the bag and started towards the bathroom. I walked in and Scott flipped on the light behind me.

"Get them out! I don't want them anymore!" I yelled, still crying and shaking and hiccupping. I flipped up the toilet seat and took out the box of sharp, fresh blades. I picked one up and twirled it in between my fingers, almost smiling to myself, remembering not only the relief they brought me as I sliced through my skin, but also the pain. The stinging, ice-cold pain that came after. The part that lasted for days. The part that I hated.

"Stiles…" Scott said behind me, placing his hand around mine, guiding it down towards the toilet. "Let it go"

And I did. I dropped the blade into the toilet. I watched as it sank to the bottom, creating little ripples in its wake. I dropped another one. And another one. And then the entire box.

"Get them out." I whispered. And Scott reached around me and flushed the toilet.

"They're gone." Scott said. "They're all gone, man. You did that. You let them go."

I closed the toilet seat and sat down on top of it. I stared at a spot on the wall just beside Scott, and I smiled. I fucking smiled. Because they were fucking gone. And I was fucking free. The smile turned into a laugh, and the laughter turned into crying.

But it was okay because Scott just tucked my head under his arms, against his torso. I wrapped both arms around him and twisted my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. He traced his thumb along the hair at the bottom of my neck and just breathed.

"I can't…I can't take another step." I whispered "Not alone."

"You're not alone, Stiles." Scott whispered back. "You never were."

And things were kinda okay again. But for me and Scott, kinda okay is better than what was to be expected. Kinda okay was, and continues to be, the place we both want to be.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been one month. One fucking month and I can't keep my shit together.

In my defense it's been shit. Everything has just been complete shit and I'm barely keeping my head above water as it is and then tonight…

My dad got hurt—shot—he got shot, because I couldn't—

I couldn't, I didn't know…I mean I usually go through all his stuff because that's just, you know, what I do and tonight I didn't because…I don't even know but he got hurt and it's my fault and he was brought to the fucking hospital and they won't let me see him so I was at home and there was nothing I could do and I thought I was strong enough but there's so much blood and I can't breathe and my hands won't stop shaking and the tears won't fucking stop and—

I don't remember calling Scott but I guess I did. "Stiles? Hey, are you okay man? Mom texted me about your dad and I went to check on him and they said he was stable but they won't let me in and you're not here so—"

I let out the shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Scott is he okay? My-my dad, is he okay?"

"I think so. Mom says he lost a lot of blood but they stopped the bleeding and he was out of surgery when I left so I'm sure he's gonna be okay. I'm grabbing us takeout and then I'm coming over to yours."

Suddenly I was crying again and it was loud and ugly and straight into the phone.

"Now, Scott. Come now."

"What? Why? Is everything—"

"I fucked up." I sobbed. "Scott I fucked up so bad. It hurts and it won't stop and it's different this time because I—Scott please, I fucked up. Please, it hurts, fuck it hurts. Not like last time, it's not… it's different and it won't stop."

"Shit Stiles. Okay. Okay I'm coming now. Both? Or just one?"

"One. M-My right." I hissed in pain as my right wrist twinged in pain, the sting of the blade still fresh on my skin.

"Grab a rag from the kitchen and press down. Hard. You need to slow the bleeding. Stiles can you do that for me?"

"Yes." I whispered. My head felt heavy and my vision was cloudy. "Hurry—"

"I know. I'm almost there. Just hold on. Do you want to stay on the line until I get there?"

"No, no it's fine." I gasped as the stinging in my wrist intensified. "Please. Please just hurry."

Scott said something back but I couldn't hear him over the sound of my own pulse in my ears, pounding.

I sat down on the kitchen floor against the oven and counted the minutes until Scott would come and save me from…me, I guess. The rag had turned a noticeable red between my fingers, the blood still flowing steadily and without signs of stopping.

At 6 minutes and 38 seconds Scott found me on the floor. At 7 minutes and 22 seconds he replaced the dishrag with gauze and tape and more gauze and more tap and told me to keep it raised above my head. At 13 minutes and 49 seconds he dialed 9-1-1 and asked for an ambulance.

At 15 minutes and 7 seconds time stopped. There was no sound expect for our breathing. There was nothing but Scott, and me who were both covered in blood. My blood. We sat beside each other on the kitchen floor, which was also covered in blood. My blood. The sight of it made me want to throw up but I couldn't find the strength to get to the bathroom.

"Scott," I groaned. "Bucket. 'M gonna be sick—"

"Fuck, uh, yeah." He jumped up and grabbed an old plastic bucket that Mom used to use for homemade soup.

It didn't smell like homemade soup when I was done with it.

"Sorry." I said quietly.

"It's cool, you actually managed to get it all in the bucket." Scott quipped.

"We both know I'm not talking about the vomit."

"Look, Stiles—"

"I'm sorry Scott. I'm sorry I can't keep my shit together and I'm sorry for _losing _my shit and I'm sorry for making you come over and clean my shit up. I should be able to—and I want to be able to…but I can't. And I'm sorry. I'm really, really, fucking sorry."

"Hey, no, Stiles—" Scott wrapped one arm around me and pulled me closer, his other hand still keeping pressure on my wrist. "Look I love you man. You're my best friend, but more than that you're my family. And family means that your shit, your mess, is my shit, my mess. Don't ever feel bad about needing some help. It doesn't mean you've lost, or that you're weak or a burden. The only thing you are is brave."

I could hear the sirens and the ambulance coming down my street. Scott shifted his body and hoisted me up by my waist. I didn't trust my legs to hold me and at this point I couldn't feel my toes so I clung to Scott like he was the only thing that was keeping me alive, which right now wasn't very far from the truth.

Two EMTs came through my front door, both shouting to their colleagues back at the truck. One spoke into the walkie-talkie on her shoulder.

"White male, late teens, about 6 foot. Vertical laceration on right wrist, self-inflicted. It's deep, definitely needs stitches. He's lost a lot of blood, but it's hard to tell how much. Arrival at Beacon Hills Memorial in about 12 minutes."

Apparently my cut was more significant than I thought.

They carried me away in a stretcher, but to me it felt like floating. Scott appeared in my field of vision, smiling but crying. I tried to reach out for him but my arms felt like lead weights at my sides.

"Scott—"

"I'm here buddy. Their gonna take you to the hospital now. You're gonna be okay… the—their gonna take good care of you." He sniffed and wiped his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

"Ride with me? In the back, i-if they let you… will you?"

"Yeah. Yeah of course I will."

I felt myself being lifted into the ambulance, and had I not been a step away from bleeding out I would've been psyched about all the cool shit back there.

I didn't see Scott sit down next to me, but I vaguely felt his hand in mine so I knew he was there with me. The EMT placed an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and told me to breath, which was dumb because lady, I'm already breathing.

After a minute or two I started to feel tired. They kept telling me to stay awake, to "stay with them" but a nap sounded really good right about now.

I let my eyes slip shut, oblivious to the chaos that ensued seconds after.

But hey, it was the best sleep I'd had in weeks.


End file.
